Weekend

Weekends should be restful.
A time to recharge and relax.
This weekend, my schedule is not.
I have mentoring, a funeral,
A birthday party and more mentoring.
Plus, homework and taxes.
Can’t I just go to work instead?

Father Long Words

When I was back in college,
I took six long hours of Speech.
One of my classmates loved it,
It was preparing him to preach.

He joined the Seminary.
They gave him room and board.
He learned the secret handshake.
He was consecrated to the Lord.

He loved preaching his homilies.
He never noticed the time go by.
His parishioners would take notice.
His sermons made them cry.

It’s not that they weren’t moving,
Or his chosen words weren’t very strong.
It wasn’t even his repeated subjects.
It’s just that they were bloody long.

They called him “Father Long Words”,
But only behind his back.
They were plotting how to sneak out,
To try and find a snack.

Finally, someone called the Bishop.
They said, “He speaks too long.”
The Bishop said, “The Spirit is within him.”
The Bishop said, “Just play along.”

It took months of complaining.
But the Bishop finally heard.
He came to the Church one Sunday.
Then he said, “That is absurd.”

The Bishop heard Father Long Words,
He dozed off about half-way through.
So, he answered the cries of his people,
After snoring loudly from his pew.

The Bishop had him transferred.
Father Long Words moved around.
He would preach in a different parish,
Until that flock drove him out of town.

Everywhere he preached,
The people listened to him at first.
They listened and they listened,
Until their bladders almost burst.

The Church finally blamed Americans,
For not appreciating the Word.
Father Long Words escaped to Ecuador,
Where they knew he would be heard.

Down in Quito, Father Long Words
Entered the famous Guinness book.
He preached two hundred thirty-seven minutes,
Because that’s just how long it took.

The week after the World’s Record,
The Pope flew in from Rome.
The Church was overflowing.
No parishioners dared stay home.

Father Long Words preached two hours.
He paused for breath, and started further.
That’s when the Pope jumped up and shot him.
The police have called it a Mass murder.

(Bless me, Father, for I have sinned with this poem.)

Squirrels

A squirrel was living in my car.
I guess I hadn’t driven it too far.
I found his nuts under my hood.
Well, pecan shells (I guess the nuts were good.)

My car is now in the shop.
I’m waiting for the ball to drop.
A warranty is a great advantage,
But it doesn’t cover rodent damage.

First Class Blues

Editor’s Note: What would happen if some old bluesman from the Delta had actually made a lot of money before he died, and not just after some British guy covered one of his songs?¬†

First Class Blues

I’m sufferin’, Lord, I’m near the end.
I’m sufferin’, Lord, I’m near the end.
I’m in an aisle seat, no window,
And their only Scotch is just a blend.

Please come save me, Lord, from this storm.
Please come save me, Lord, from this storm.
My mixed nuts are mostly almonds,
And those are barely warm.

Help me, Lord, I feel a fool.
Help me, Lord, I feel a fool.
There’s no mo’ steak, there’s only chicken.
And the cold shrimp cocktail’s barely cool.

Steel me, Lord, for my final stand.
Steel me, Lord, for my final stand.
My wine was spilled and sticky,
And there’s no hot towels to cleanse my hand.

Save me, Lord, I must repeat.
Save me, Lord, I must repeat.
I went down to the crossroads,
But at twenty-seven thousand feet.

Hear me, Lord, I’m sore afraid.
(I said) Hear me, Lord, I’m sore afraid.
I used up all my coupons,
This was my last upgrade.